As The Dust Settles
by Wayoming
Summary: This is where i'm going to put my BBC Sherlock short stories from now on. I intend to have these all adhering to the same AU, not in chronological order. Some slash/friendship. Time specified in chapters.
1. The Woman In Black

**This basically happened because a friend and I went to the theatre when she came to visit me in London, and she reminds me a little of Sherlock...In as much as nothing ever surprises her in plays.**

**But yes, another quick fic entry, let me know what you think!**

**The Woman In Black**

"But it was obvious John! From the moment he mentioned his daughter-"  
>"Not to me."<br>"Come now, surely you could see that coming? A woman appears at the theatre that he presumes is an actress… Then the story of those who see her…John?"

John's silence had become stony. Taking Sherlock to see The Woman in Black had been a grand mistake. Not only had he done what he always does by deducing what the eventual outcome of the plot would be within the first few scenes, he had then decided to tell not only John, but the people in the surrounding rows. He had then insisted that they leave, as he'd already figured out the mystery of the piece and attempted to remove both John and himself during the interval. John had of course refused, and Sherlock had dulled through the rest of the play. Smiling smugly when he was proven correct by the actors.  
>Sherlock and theatre were clearly something that shouldn't mix.<br>Now they were back at Baker Street. And John was still silent.

"John," Sherlock hesitated, "you wanted to see the outcome of the play, rather than have me spell it out to you. I rather ruined the point of the evening didn't I?"  
>"Got it in one, Sherlock."<br>"I'm… sorry, John."  
>"Don't worry Sherlock."<p>

Next time, John would take Greg.

He _hated _theatre, but at least he wouldn't tell John the ending.


	2. Hands

**Hands**

What are you doing?"

John blinked rapidly, flushed by embarrassment, drawing his gaze away too late.

"Nothing. What were you saying?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. John swallowed subtly and willed Sherlock to continue whatever diatribe he had interrupted. He gave John a look that conveyed his derision over John's sudden mental absence and, thankfully, continued. He began twirling his pen again. And John stopped listening. Again.

It had been about three weeks since John had admitted to himself that he had begun to foster an unhealthy obsession with a certain part of Sherlock's anatomy.

His hands.

The long, pale digits, tipped by the palest tint under his rounded nails. Thin and dextrous, moving with a grace that shouldn't move John's blood in the way that it does. The idea of those finely tuned fingers gliding over his skin, pressing slowly on his pulse points, sends a shiver down his spine. Something he is sure Sherlock has noticed. Something that he is sure Sherlock will bring up once he has finished humouring him. Something that Sherlock would consider so very ordinary.

And yet he continues to twirl that pen. And John allowed himself to daydream and stare until Sherlock's hands come to a loud slap on the tabletop in front of John.

"That's settled then." He smiles, the baring of teeth at John's obvious confusion frustrating, "You're ready?"

John looked up at Sherlock. He knew that Sherlock was testing him, he could see it in the game smile he was giving John. He smiled back. John would always be ready for any challenge Sherlock gave him.

"Always


	3. What You Answer To

The pause became a silence, drawing itself out between us. I could feel John's eyes burning into my own, pride being the only thing that kept our eyes linked.  
>He was furious. I had never seen him in such as rage as he was now. And it was justified. I had completely misjudged the situation. People had died.<br>That is important to him. And so I endeavour to make it important to me.  
>"John-" I begin in a placating tone, before he cuts across me in a hissing rant.<br>"I think what's worst is that we see the relatives, the friends, you go barely a week without a funeral notice dropping through our door, and yet you never say a word! You never answer them, never apologise for not going, never send flowers or condolences or-or-anything! I know that you have things to do Sherlock, important things, but surely you could take five minutes to think of other people for once? "

I looked levelly at John. How little he knew. Part of me wanted to tell him. To explain why I could never go to the funerals. Can never come face to face with the living incarnation of the dead.  
>A small part of me wanted to shout back at him that I couldn't send flowers, because what do you put when you're the reason that they're dead? What do you say when you come face to face with grieving widows, widowers, parents, children, friends, knowing full well that it's something you failed to do, you failed to observe, that is the reason why their hearts are torn in two. What do you write when you know you could have prevented the death that you are commemorating?<br>"My most sincere condolences, to you whom I failed"?  
>Ridiculous.<p>

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

I'd broken eye contact finally. Head hung, chin against my chest, I couldn't look at him. Couldn't bare to have him judge me for something I just couldn't talk about.

"Sherlock, are you crying?"

Of course not, that would be-  
>Oh.<br>I saw the damp patch on my shirt and touched a finger to my cheek. I stared at the shining tear clinging there.  
>Oh.<br>Oh.  
>More started to follow and I felt John's arm slide around my shoulders.<p>

"I'm sorry for having a go."

I said nothing. My brain gave me nothing. The warm, comforting weight of John's arm was too much. I stood quickly and made my way out of the room, not stopping until I was crumpled with my back against my bedroom door.

It was dark, and raining when I finally decided to leave my room. Opening the door led to John tumbling onto my feet. He had clearly mirrored my stance on the other side of my door, and it's unexpected opening meant that I was looking down into his open, and currently shocked, face.

"I'm sorry." He said.  
>"I'm not." I said.<br>"I know," he replied, smiling and taking the hand I'd proffered and pulling himself up, "that's okay."  
>I could feel the corners of my lips being tugged in response to his warm features.<p>

John understood. I didn't need to speak, to explain anything. I let go of his warm hand, and retreated back into my room.

John never bothered me about the funerals again. But the mourners started getting handwritten apologies signed John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.


	4. While You Were Sleeping

They had been watching some tedious film, the flickering of the television in the dark room hypnotic as that sound of the rain lashing against the window. John had begun to sag, his eyes drooping, body softening into the sofa. They had reached the end of the film before Sherlock realised that John was asleep. He turned to John to address him in a scathing tone that the apparent "classic" nature of Gene Kelly films was questionable at best, and was surprised to find John snoring lightly.

Sherlock had put it down to the early start John had had (woken by Sherlock shouting vehemently at their postman) and his surprise was short-lived.

Sherlock thought hard about what to do. If he left John where he was he would wake with a stiff back and a bad temper. Sherlock knew enough about self-preservation to try and remedy this. He tipped John on his side, and procured the blanket from the back of the sofa as he lifted John's legs up, careful not to tickle the sock-clad feet, and then cradled John's head as he gently placed it on a cushion. He kept his hand there a moment longer, scanning John's sleeping face.

"John?" he murmured, a vague attempt at waking him. He glanced at his watch, and noticed two things. It was barely eight o'clock, and he still had a hand on John's face.

Sherlock withdrew his hand tentatively, carefully laying the blanket over his friend. He looked down at John's sleeping body, the fatigue evident on his face, and couldn't help but sympathise for once. It wasn't often that Sherlock gave in, let go, fully rested. But it was at times like these, when he saw how exhausted John was, that he started wanting to slow down.

Not to rest however. No, never to rest.

Sherlock ran a cautious hand through John's short hair. He wanted to slow down time and keep the man before him like this forever. Always warm, always safe, always John.


End file.
